Life Before Damaged Vol. 8 (The Ferro Family) (5 page)

C
ars
and yellow cabs pass by, honking incessantly. Tall skyscrapers surround us and throngs of people walk past as if they are all late for something. This city is always moving. It never stops.

If paparazzi are following us, they are very discreet about it, which is fine by me. Occasionally, Pete holds my hand, lacing our fingers together. I try to ignore the way it makes my stomach flip. I'm lonely and desperate for physical attention—even attention in the form of holding hands with a notorious womanizer and philanderer, even if it's only for the paps' much-needed pictures. I can't help but feel comfort with every little stroke of his thumb on the side of my hand.

As we pass a small secondhand store, something in the window catches my eye. I stop for a closer look. Pete hasn’t noticed and keeps on walking. He’s about two stores away, so I jog over to him and pull on his hand, stopping him.

“Hey, Pete? Do you remember at the merger gala when you asked me to teach you more swing dancing? Were you serious about that?”

Don’t give the toothy smile, Gina. Act casual. I lace my fingers together and hold them in front of me, while I rock back on my heels slightly. Pete’s brow rises as he steps towards me. The pit of my stomach goes into a freefall and the teeth try to come out. CHEESE. Damn it. Close your mouth! The result is horrendous. The corners of my lips tug up and twitch as if I had a hamster banging on my teeth and trying to escape from my mouth. Sexy!

Pete is a breath away, looking down at me. “Yes, I was serious. Why?”

I make a sound only dogs can hear as I pull Pete towards the store. Walking backward and holding onto both of his hands, I give him the full tooth grin. He follows hesitantly, eyebrows scrunched. It’s the kind of store Pete wouldn't be caught dead in if not for the very insistent ballerina bossing him around.

“Come on then, big spender. We’re getting you some dancing shoes.”

I pull him into the shop, where we weave our way through a mix of secondhand and brand new merchandise. The air is thick with an undertone of moth balls and musty moisture. The scent takes some getting used to. I usher Pete to the back of the store and push him down onto the bench before I start rummaging through boxes.

A clerk helps us out and twenty minutes later, we step out of the store, shoe bag in hand and a smug look on my face.

“Now, lesson number one—biker boots are not dancing shoes.”

Pete stops next to me, wraps an arm around my shoulders, and pulls me into his side. “You know why I agreed to this, right?”

I look up to him, grinning like a kid. “Because I have awesome taste, and you’ll look fabulous in your new saddle shoes!”

Pete shakes his head. “Not quite. I agreed because the entire time we were in there, you had a loaded shoe in your hand. My face felt intimidated.”

I bark out a loud laugh, making people stop and stare. I clap my hand over my mouth. We settled on a pair of black on black saddle shoes. Paired with a nice pair of tailored pants and button up shirt, he’ll be even more scrumptious than he is now. I love his scruffy, battered up, bad boy look, but seeing him dressed in a tux knocked the wind out of me. That man can rock the formal look. I was tempted to get him the two-toned saddle shoes, black on white, to match my Oxfords, but he’s not ready for that yet. Men have to ease into awesomeness. Maybe I’ll get him spats and suspenders next.

Pete holds up the bag and looks at it before shaking his head. “Saddle shoes. My brothers are going to kick my ass after every other guy out there does.”

“Men are so dense. Women love shoes and a guy in a hot pair of shoes is completely doable.” I turn away, but Pete takes me by the hand and pulls me back toward him.

“Is that what this is about? Making me more doable? That might be hazardous to my health.” Pete’s chest brushes against mine when he laughs.

I lean in close, getting near enough to kiss him, but I don’t. I tease, “It could be. The swagger, the tight shirts complete with beautiful biceps, let’s not forget the aphrodisiac cologne, and now a pair of sexy saddle shoes.” I tick off the items one by one on my fingers. “I don’t know…maybe we should get you an insurance rider. It could be serious, women falling from the sky and landing on your dick might hurt. That could have unforeseen complications.”

Pete moves quickly, pulls me against him and looks down into my eyes. He lingers there for a moment, until those crystal eyes are locked on my mouth. “You have a very dirty mouth, Gina Granz.”

“Good thing you have all that soap, then.” The pull between us is amazing. It reaches into every part of me, and it’s becoming more difficult not to touch him. Fuck it. I press a finger to his lips and smile at him before ripping my body out of his force field of sexy vibes.

Pete remains perfectly still. It’s as if he’s stunned into silence. When he recovers, he takes my hand and we continue down the street.

P
ete is
at a nearby bakery getting us freshly baked cookies and coffee. He’s catering to my every whim, and I feel like a princess. While I wait for him to come back, I sit on the grass, in the middle of Central Park, watching people. It's early November. The air is chilly but not yet the finger numbing cold we get in the dead of winter. It’s more like fluffy sweater weather. Luckily, I dressed warmly enough to enjoy the fresh, crisp air.

A gust of wind blows, tossing my hair every which way. Fallen leaves make their way across the lawn, spinning around like a dirt devil. One leaf falls onto my lap, and I pick it up. My hand crumples the dead foliage, sprinkling dried specks of brown on my shoes. Melancholy takes hold of me and squeezes tightly around my chest, making it hard to breathe. My eyes prickle and sting, but I hold back the tears. I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs tightly.

Within the next couple of days, the trees will be completely bare, and the first snowfall will cover the ground, making everything look pure and white. Snow is supposed to bring the promise of happy times to come. Christmas lights, gift giving, and family gatherings.

But not this year, not for me.

My father is still treating me as if I don’t exist. My mother and I barely see each other and getting out to see my friends is nearly impossible.

My thoughts get interrupted when Pete shows up, coffee tray in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

“I know you insisted, but they only had one macadamia nut cookie left. I hope that’s okay? I got a ton of other snacks, too, since you randomly have the appetite of a caveman.”

I beat my fists against my chest and make a grunting noise.

Pete laughs. “And that was?” Pete raises his cup of coffee to his lips and watches me from over the rim.

“My homo sapiens impression.”

Pete spews and starts laugh-choking. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and sits down hard next to me, still chortling. “You are a homo sapiens! I think you mean Neanderthal.”

I shrug and sip my coffee. “Same difference.” I try not to smile and do a caveman voice. “Gina might need more science classes.”

Pete laughs again, making his chest shake. “I can’t tell if you’re serious or if you’re just screwing with me.”

I reply in a silky, sexy voice, “A little of both.” His eyes sweep over my face, as if he’s just realizing there’s more to know about me and he wants to dig deeper. I’m not sure what he’s going to find because I haven’t figured out what’s in the basement of my soul yet. For all I know there’s a whack-a-doo living down there. I might have to keep her chained up, so I divert his attention with a deadly serious topic. “Pete, I need to tell you something. There’s a lot about me that you don’t know, but this part is really important—don’t eat my macadamia nut cookie.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I made that mistake once. Never again.”

I hold up my cup of coffee and Pete does the same. I tap them together. “Cheers. To health, happiness, gold pizza, and a truckload of cookies. Salute.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a while, sipping our coffee, shoulder to shoulder. After a few minutes, I rest my head on his shoulder and sigh.

“What’s the matter, G?” Pete’s voice is soft, kind.

I don’t want to spoil the day with my bipolar mood. “Nothing.”

“I know it’s something. You deflated when I went to get coffee, and that cookie should have perked you up. It didn’t, so what’s going on?” Pete doesn’t look at me while he speaks so it doesn’t feel like I have to answer, but I want to.

"It's nothing really. I was just thinking about the holidays and how I miss the way my family used to be—this year will be hard. Your family doesn't seem like a festive group. Somehow, I can't quite picture your mother singing carols or kissing anyone under the mistletoe."

I lift my chin up to catch Pete's reaction. His mouth quirks up to one side. "Yeah, not so much. They’re more about grand ceremonies to flaunt the family’s wealth. It has little to do with mirth or merriment."

Maybe Christmas won’t be so bad if Pete can hold onto this nicer version of himself and can stick around long enough to spend some time with me. I swallow my sorrow and force a smile.

“Do you have any nice Christmas memories, Pete?"

"A few. Mostly from when we were kids--before we knew our family was a fucked up mess. Then it just became a tedious social event. You?"

"It used to be my favorite time of the year. My dad and I did this thing every year where he took me out for a special Father-Daughter date, a couple days before Christmas. We took in shows, sights, dinner, pictures with Santa, the tree at Rockefeller Center. When I was a little girl, Daddy told me that the Channel Garden Angels fly around the tree while we're sleeping, decorating it with magical snowflakes blown from their brass trumpets. It's the most efficient way to get lights up at the very top of the tree.” The memory is bittersweet, but I shrug it off. Pete doesn’t need to hear all that.

I pull out a fake smile and plaster it across my face. “But hey, things could be worse. I could be in a jail cell, sipping eggnog from my cellmate's bellybutton and trying not to comment on her I Heart Ponies tattoo.”

Pete gags on his coffee. I look up to see he has a shocked expression on his face. “You're disturbing at times.”

“It’s a talent.” I smile at him and then start thinking. “There is no way I would have imagined myself in this position. Ever. When I was a little girl, I did pretty much what all little girls do. I wished for the fairytale—the romantic courtship, bouquets of roses, the surprise engagement where the man drops to one knee with a diamond and a smile. Instead, I got a schedule, staged dates in front of reporters, and a betrothed whose little black book is bigger than the Bible. It’s not a fairytale, but it’s one helluva story regardless.”

Pete sets his cup of coffee on the ground and pushes himself up. From the look of it, he’s pissed. His shoulders are squared off, his hands closed into tight fists, his jaw clenching.

What the heck? I bare my soul and he’s mad? “Pete?”

“I don't get you--sometimes you seem so fragile, but you always surprise me by getting back up each time life kicks you down. You have a temper that could easily rival my mother's, yet you forgive everyone around you. After everything you’ve been through, after having everything taken away from you, even after the way the people you love treated you, you still don't give up. Why? What’s the fucking point?”

I hop up and grab his elbow, spinning him around. He looks down at me with those eyes and in that moment I swear I can see every thought, every emotion, and the war raging within him. “What am I supposed to do? Curl up into a ball and die? Screw that. I got a second chance, and I'm going to make sure I don't waste it, no matter what. On the night of that rave, I thought I was dead. Finished. Caput! There was no way for me to survive. My last thoughts before I passed out were about how I wasted my life. I had so many regrets, then you—of all people—saved me.”

“Please don’t glorify my actions from that night. You know why I did it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you just wanted to bang a good girl. Stop interrupting me, Ferro, this is deep stuff and I don’t share it too often.”

Pete looks down at me from under his lashes. There’s a softness to him that’s usually hidden. “I don’t know what to think—about anything anymore.”

“Are you sure?” I step toward him, closing the space between us. I brush away a lock of hair that’s hanging in his eyes and smooth it back. Tipping my head to the side, I rest my hand on his cheek. “I refuse to have any more regrets. If I cross a street today and get hit by a bus, I want to be able to say I did everything in my power to make my life awesome. I can't do that if I give up. It’s not for nothing, Pete. Life isn’t a sick joke with no point."

"You can't make past regrets vanish. What’s done is done and will follow us to our graves no matter what we do.”

My hand falls to my side as a somber wave of regret washes over me. “We’re both changing, I can feel it. It’s frightening because we don’t know where we’ll end up, and I don’t mean a prison cell versus a mansion—it’s more than that. I can’t change what happened, I can’t erase the mistakes I’ve made. I can’t make my father forgive me, and I don’t get the fairytale with the white knight. Instead, I’ve been given other things. A friend came out of that fire. I don’t know about you, but I really needed one then—someone who understood having a tyrannical parent and being an utter disappointment. For some reason, the two of us, in our failings gives me strength. I found hope again and I’m not living my life looking backwards. I’m grateful for what I have now, right this second.”

I press the pad of a finger to his nose. Pete doesn’t move. His gaze remains fixed on the yellowing grass. He inhales slowly before speaking. “Me? You’re grateful for me?” He asks the question as if it’s a cruel joke.

My eyes sting and it’s everything I can do to hide it. I throw my arm around his shoulder and tug him against me. Since I’m short, it doesn’t work very well. Actually, it’s silly—which is what I hoped for. “I am. This ballerina really jives with your inner poet. You should let that mofo out more often.”

Pete laughs unexpectedly and turns toward me. “Maybe I will.”